Asylum
by elbcw
Summary: 'They continued to sit in silence. Porthos could barely speak anyway and now Aramis was preoccupied with taking short panting breathes. He wondered if being incarcerated in a place where the lunatics were kept would somehow make them insane over time? He could do little else but wonder.' Porthos and Aramis wake up in a cell, will they ever be found? One shot.


Asylum

They had been there for three days now, at least Porthos thought it was three days. They had lost track of time quite quickly, the cell they had been locked in had no window, and precious little light came from the dark corridor outside. There were torches lighting the corridor, the flicker of the flames illuminating the stone walls of the sparse cell. A couple of threadbare blankets and a scattering of straw the only items within.

He had pulled all the straw together after a few cold hours, realising it would put something between them and the cold floor. Without their doublet's they had both been shivering. The blankets, initially pulled around each of them separately were soon employed in tandem as they had taken to huddling together in a corner in a vain attempt to keep warm.

Today they had been beaten, and Aramis had taken the brunt of it. The marksman had, as was his usual style, defended Porthos when one of the guards had come into the cell and begun making comments about the musketeer's skin colour. Aramis had vehemently argued with the guard even as Porthos had tried to pull him away. He was too late; the guard had taken the club he was carrying and hit Aramis hard on the shoulder. Aramis had stumbled back into Porthos who had tried to keep them both on their feet. As they had fallen the club was brought down across his back a couple of times knocking the air out of him. The two other guards then dragged him away from Aramis as the first one hit and kicked his friend, continuing long after the marksman had lost consciousness.

Porthos had tried to pull away from the two men holding him but could not, the club strikes across his back causing him pain and lack of proper food and water leaving him weakened. Once the man with the club was satisfied with the beating he had given Aramis he had straightened up and looked at Porthos with a challenging expression. Porthos had done his best to show no emotion, he did not think he succeeded. The three guards had left the small cell.

Porthos had gathered up his unconscious, injured friend and pulled him into the corner. He could do no more than hold Aramis and cover him in the blankets. The marksman had remained still for what felt like hours. The only thing that told Porthos he was still alive was the shallow breathes he was taking, broken ribs preventing his friend from taking more than the bare minimum of air into his lungs.

The fight that had led to them being here was a distant memory. It had been a stupid fight, Aramis had knocked into one of the customers in the tavern. It had clearly been an accident but the man did not take kindly to it. The man, bigger than Aramis had turned to the marksman and punched him. Aramis had not stood a chance, he was probably unconscious before he hit the floor. Outnumbered, Porthos had been overpowered in seconds, another of the customers had grabbed him from behind, an arm wrapped tightly around his neck crushing his throat. He had struggled, but the inevitable blurring of the edges of his vision told him he was passing out, he was still struggling to speak, even now, three days later.

When he had woken the first thing he had seen was Aramis looking at him with concern. He had reached up and felt his neck, it felt tender, he had struggled to swallow. Aramis had helped him to sit up and lean against the wall. He had looked around the cell, confused. When Aramis told him where he thought they were he had almost laughed. Almost.

When the guard had appeared at the cell door the first time, Aramis had tried to get him to understand that they were musketeers and that them being in the asylum was clearly a mistake. As Aramis had spoken he had wrapped his fingers around the bars of the small window on their cell door. With no warning, the guard had smashed his club across Aramis' hand. Aramis had yelped and stumbled back a few paces, clutching at his injured hand, clearly in immense pain. Porthos had scrambled up and, unable to shout, had bashed the door, the guard had laughed and walked off.

Aramis had paled and looked on the verge of passing out, Porthos had forced the marksman to sit on the floor whilst he inspected his friend's hand. Aramis had managed to move each digit slowly, none of the fingers were broken, he had sighed with relief. They had remained in silence for some time, leaning against the wall of the cell.

A small flap at the base of the door had opened and a piece of bread and a cup of water had been pushed through. They had shared the bread and the water between them. The bread was stale, Porthos had picked off the worst of the mould. They knew they had to eat it, they did not know how long they would be there before they were found. They were clinging onto the hope that they would be found.

That was three days ago, Aramis' fingers were bruised and swollen, from their first encounter with the guards. They were hungry and the lack of water was starting to affect them both. And now Aramis had been further assaulted. Porthos wondered how much longer they could last. He wondered if the other inmates were treated in the same manner that they had been.

Treville would search for them. Not straight away, they would have to be missing for a few days before a search would be started. He hoped that Athos and d'Artagnan would start to search sooner. But would anyone think to check at the asylum? Their usual taverns and perhaps the women Aramis was seeing would be checked. Even the chatelet would be searched. But the asylum? Who would think to check here?

Aramis stirred, he groaned and tried to move but Porthos stopped him. He did not want his friend to move around too much, the broken ribs would cause him more pain if he were to move around. Aramis sensed that Porthos wanted him to remain still and stopped trying to pull away. They had not been given any more bread or water. He felt weak, he knew Aramis would be feeling worse, after the beating.

They continued to sit in silence. Porthos could barely speak anyway and now Aramis was preoccupied with taking short panting breathes.

Porthos wondered if they would ever be found. He wondered if being incarcerated in a place where the lunatics were kept would somehow make them insane over time? He could do little else but wonder.

MMMM

The flap in the door was pushed open again, Aramis watched as another mouldy piece of bread was pushed through and another cup of water. He did not have the energy to move across the small cell to retrieve the meagre offering. Porthos slowly stood and crossed to the door, he briefly peered out into the corridor before stooping down and gathering up the bread and the cup of water. He returned and carefully sat back down. Aramis knew Porthos would force him to drink first, he would not argue, he did not have the energy.

Porthos helped him to drink, his own uninjured hand shaking too much to hold the cup. When he had drunk half the liquid he looked at Porthos sternly, the big musketeer had managed a smile as he finished off the water. The bread was dry and Aramis could tell Porthos was struggling to swallow it, the effect of his strangulation still evident.

Aramis knew his own injuries were bad, and he knew it was his own fault. But the guard had insulted Porthos, and Porthos, unable to speak at all at the time, had been unable to answer back. Porthos had tried to stop him but his frustration at their situation had overtaken any sense of self-preservation he had at that moment. The guards either did not care or did not believe him when he had told them they were musketeers.

He still did not know how they had come to be incarcerated. He had no recollection of being knocked out. He had woken in the cold cell, Porthos lying unconscious beside him. After checking on his friend he had looked out of the barred window in the cell door. He could not see anyone but across the dank corridor he had seen restraints hanging up. After initially thinking they were in the chatelet he realised he did not recognise their surroundings. He knew, after staring at the restraints for a few minutes that they were in the asylum. He could not work out why. His only thought was that it was some sort of joke.

With Porthos unable to speak Aramis could not ask his friend what had happened. Porthos had tried speaking when he had come around but the bruising to his neck had left him unable. Aramis hoped his friend would not be left with a permanent issue. The bruising did look better and he had since managed to whisper a few words, but Aramis had told him not to strain his throat any further. They had spent most of the time in silence.

Once he had finished eating Porthos had pulled Aramis back against his chest. They were both shivering and Aramis did not think that huddling together was really making much of a difference to them now. But he did not try to pull away, he did not think he could if wanted to anyway. If this was the treatment the other inmates received he doubted anyone would last long in this hellish place.

The sound of footsteps outside the cell had them both looking over towards the door.

MMMM

'Open it,' said d'Artagnan angrily. He shoved the guard towards the door.

If they had not needed the guard to show them which cell he had been keeping their friends, he would have cheerfully run the weedy man through with his sword. The door open, d'Artagnan pushed the man out of the way. He entered the cell and looked around. It was dark and cold, Porthos and Aramis were huddled together in the corner. Athos followed him in carrying one of the flaming torches.

D'Artagnan crouched down by his friends and looked them over. Neither had spoken or moved. Aramis breathing seemed laboured, Porthos had his arm around the marksman. They were both shivering.

'He was beaten by the guards,' said Porthos quietly, his voice was croaky, d'Artagnan noticed the bruising around his neck.

'OK, we'll get you out of here. Can you walk?' asked d'Artagnan.

Porthos nodded. D'Artagnan was not convinced, however, that the pale marksman would remain conscious long enough to stand let alone walk anywhere.

Porthos asked, 'why were we brought here?'

Athos answered, 'after your altercation in the tavern a couple of the asylum guards found you both unconscious in the street. They clearly had a vendetta against the Musketeers for something and decided to take it out on you. They knew a search was unlikely to be made of this place. If they had not been overheard by the landlord of the tavern talking about you we would not have known where to look.'

A couple of cadets were hovering by the door d'Artagnan turned to them, 'find a stretcher for Aramis, and bring some water.'

Porthos helped d'Artagnan to move Aramis away from him and lean him back against the wall, the marksman clearly had little energy left. With the additional light from the torch it became clear that both men were filthy and Aramis was covered in bruising. D'Artagnan pushed up Aramis' shirt to better assess his injuries, the marksman moaned when his broken ribs were touched.

'Sorry,' said d'Artagnan looking up, Aramis managed a pained smile.

The cadets returned with water and a stretcher. Athos took the water and handed the torch to the cadet. He crouched down and helped Porthos to drink, stopping him from drinking too much. He moved across to Aramis who tried to reach up for the water, Athos stopped him and kept hold of the water skin. Athos looked with disgust at the state of Aramis bruised hand. When Aramis had taken a few sips of the water D'Artagnan helped the cadets to move him onto the stretcher. The two young men carried the barely conscious musketeer out of the cell.

Athos was helping Porthos to stand, the big musketeer was stiff and winced as he moved, d'Artagnan took a step forward and helped him up.

'Are you injured?' he asked.

'I was hit a couple of times across the back,' replied Porthos, his voice stronger now that he had been able to drink.

Once he was upright Porthos was able to walk, stiffly, on his own. D'Artagnan stayed close by. As they exited the cell d'Artagnan glared at the guard who was now shackled and being held by another couple of Musketeers.

MMMM

Athos pushed the door to the infirmary open. He took at the scene before him, Aramis was lying, either asleep or unconscious on one of the beds, striped down to his underclothes. Porthos, wearing a clean shirt and breeches, was sat beside him cleaning off the dirt and sweat that had accumulated during their imprisonment. Aramis was pale, making the dark bruising across his body stand out.

'How are you both?'

'Better for getting cleaned up,' replied Porthos without looking up, 'I hadn't realised just how dirty we were,' he rinsed out the cloth he was using before returning to his task, lifting Aramis' right arm up and running the damp rag over his skin.

'D'Artagnan questioned the men who took you.'

Porthos looked up, 'I hope he had to be…persuasive.'

Athos tried to conceal a grim smirk, 'I believe he did have to be…persuasive. Apparently, a couple of musketeers, they could not say who, had upset them in a card game a few weeks ago…I am sure it was not you Porthos,' said Athos, when a look of concern crossed Porthos' face.

'…and they thought that leaving us in the asylum made up for it?'

Athos shrugged. He moved across and sat on the other side of Aramis taking in the collection of darkening bruises.

'At least two broken ribs, I think…I'm just glad his fingers weren't broken…it would have affected his shooting too much.'

'What did he do to deserve such a beating when you were only hit a couple of times?'

Porthos was quiet for a few seconds, his hand lying on Aramis arm, before replying, 'they were making remarks, about me…' Athos knew what Porthos meant, 'and he…'

Athos reached over and rested his hand on Porthos'.

'…he doesn't need to defend me,' continued Porthos, he paused for a few seconds before smiling, 'but he'll keep doing it won't 'e?'

'As we all will…and how many times have you come to our defence?'

'Very true,' said Porthos.

Aramis moaned slightly and moved his head, he opened his eyes then quickly shut them again bringing his uninjured hand up to shade his face from the light. Athos quickly closed the shutters over the windows.

'Thanks,' said Aramis. With Porthos' help he sat up, his breathing was still shallow, and he winced when he moved. Porthos poured him a cup of water. As he sat sipping from the cup Athos explained what had happened with the men who had taken them.

'…they're going to have a prolonged stay in the Chatelet?' said Aramis when Athos had finished.

Athos nodded.

'That's a shame,' said Porthos, without a hint of sympathy.

Aramis chuckled, Athos could tell he regretted it as he screwed his eyes shut wincing in pain.

'Sorry,' said Porthos with a smile, 'let's get your ribs strapped up before I do any more damage to them.'

Aramis winced in pain again as he tried to supress a laugh. Porthos looked across at Athos who shook his head, exasperated.

It had been a close call, but they were back where they belonged, Athos hated to think how long his friends could have been trapped in the hellish place if their captors had not been so pleased with themselves and decided to talk about it in the tavern. The consequences of the guards gloating were now going to have a very detrimental effect on them as they languished in the Chatelet, probably getting the same treatment that had been meted out to his friend.

Athos did not feel sorry for them.

The End


End file.
